CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

After the man left, I wandered back toward the party, dazed, as if I’d taken another blow to the head, the world fuzzy and off-kilter, the ground unsteady.

“Liv?”

I saw James hurrying toward me and snapped out of it.

“Hey,” I said. “Sorry. Restroom break took a little longer than I thought.”

He laughed. “It happens. I was starting—” He glanced at my hand. “What’s that?”

I lifted the boar’s tusk. “I found it on the floor. At first I thought it was a pendant, but . . .”

“It looks like a tusk.”

I tried not to seem relieved. I hadn’t dared identify it, half expecting James wouldn’t see what I did.

“Weird, huh?” I said. “Definitely not a pendant. Maybe some kind of good luck charm.” I put my arm through his and slid the tusk into my bag.

“I was starting to wonder if I’d missed a signal and was supposed to meet you here.” He grinned my way. “I know you like back halls.”

“I do.”

His hand slid down to my rear. I tensed. I didn’t mean to, but I was still off balance and struggling to find my way back. He pulled his hand away fast.

“Sorry,” I said. “Just . . . distracted.”

I tried to remember the dance, what it had felt like, my body against his. Then I pushed my mind back to the last charity event we’d attended, when we’d slipped into a back corridor and had sex against the wall, delicious sex. I felt the first licks of heat, but it wasn’t enough. Yet I didn’t want to say no, either. I could feel that slow ache. I just couldn’t shake thoughts of the man I’d just met.

“Let’s do something this weekend,” I said. “I mean, if you’re not busy—”

“I’m not.” His arm tightened around me as he moved closer while we walked.

“I’m done working at three on Friday and I’m off Saturday. I can try to wrangle Sunday, too. We could go away. If you want.”

He grinned. “I do.”

“Good.”

“And right now, I think it’s late enough to say our goodbyes and spend some quality time eating frozen custard. If you still want.”

I smiled. “I do.”

—

It takes a special talent to enjoy frozen custard mere minutes after being confronted by an otherworldly being who hands you a boar’s tusk. I have that talent. It’s called acting. I’d been a dedicated member of every school troupe from elementary through college. I’m a natural, which may be what comes from growing up feeling as if I was playing a role in someone else’s drama. For James’s sake, I had to eat custard and smile and laugh, because that’s what he expected and he hadn’t done anything to deserve less. So I enjoyed our post-date treat and then zoomed home, punched in the code to my new security system, and took out my phone to . . .

To what?

Call Gabriel. That was the first thing I thought of. I had to call Gabriel and tell him . . .

It wasn’t a question of “tell him what?” I could tell him about this. He’d listen. He’d believe. He’d strategize. The question was, Why him? I’d reflex-dialed Gabriel Saturday night, but that had at least been for professional advice—how to handle finding a part of a corpse in my bed. This was personal.

—

At work the next day, the Clarks came by midmorning, as they usually did, for tea and scones. I waited until my break. Then I spoke to them about Ciara Conway. I wanted to talk about her. I could move through my days, act like nothing was wrong, but I was keenly aware that a young woman was dead and her family didn’t know it. If there was anything I could do to ease my conscience, I would do it.

“I feel like I should do something,” I said after we talked. “I’m not exactly a detective, but Gabriel taught me how to do some basic legwork. Maybe I can prod the police into conducting a better investigation.”

“You did very well with your mother’s case,” Ida said. “You may have found your calling: Olivia Jones, private eye.” She looked at her husband. “We don’t have one of those in Cainsville, do we?”

“I don’t believe we do.”

“And we sorely need one,” Patrick said from across the diner, his gaze not rising from his laptop screen. “To chase down overdue parking tickets and find lost puppies. Speaking of which . . .” He glanced at me. “Did I hear that your cat has disappeared?”

I nodded. “I’ve hated to mention it, with Ms. Conway missing.”

Ida frowned. “The black stray?”

“Yes. I was taking out trash that morning. He must have slipped out. But if you do spot him, I’d like to know he’s okay.”

“Of course.”

Ida looked around at several of the other elders, dotting tables throughout the diner, as if knowing they’d be listening in. They all glanced over and said no, they hadn’t seen TC, but they’d keep an eye out.

“I’ll speak to Grace,” Ida said. “She might know more than she’s saying.”

“Good luck with that,” Patrick called over, still typing.

“Well,” I said. “If I can’t find my own cat, I suspect I’m not exactly ready to be a PI. Nor am I ready to investigate Ms. Conway’s disappearance. But I’d like to try.”

“With Gabriel’s help, of course,” Walter said.

“Er . . . yes, Gabriel has offered to provide—”

“You’ll be working with him, won’t you?” Ida pressed. “I haven’t seen him around. I hope that doesn’t mean anything. We were so happy to see you two together.”

“We were never . . . together,” I said. “It’s a business partnership—”

“Yes, yes. I mean working together. You still are, aren’t you?”

“Liv?” Patrick raised his mug. “Break’s over, isn’t it?”

While he was giving me a way out of this conversation, I could tell this was important to the elders. They might tease about me becoming a PI, but they knew I needed Gabriel for this.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be working with Gabriel.”

Ida smiled. “Excellent. Then we’ll provide you with anything we can.”

As I walked up behind Patrick, he lifted his empty coffee cup as if he recognized the sound of my steps.

I retrieved the pot. “I’m officially still on lunch,” I said as I filled his mug.

“Which means you’ll get a much better tip today. In fact, I think I’ll double it.”

“Awesome. What’s double of nothing?”

He smiled. “My favor is much more valuable than any monetary reward.”

“Good, because I need to draw on that favor.” I sat down across from him. “You know some Welsh, right?”

“I do.” He closed his laptop. “Let’s step outside.”

“This will only take a second. One word. Maybe two—I can’t tell with Welsh. It sounds like coon anoon.”

Patrick went still, and the hairs on my neck rose. I turned to see a half-dozen pairs of old eyes fixed on me. They all glanced away quickly, as if I’d imagined it, but was I imagining, too, that the noise level had dropped to nothing? As if no one wanted to miss what I said next? Which would be a little creepy, if that wasn’t par for the course in Cainsville. For a bunch of folks past retirement age, they all have very good hearing—or top-notch hearing aids.

“You know the word?” I asked Patrick.

“Say it again?”

I did. He frowned, his eyes going to the side as if accessing memories. That frown didn’t go away, which told me he wasn’t finding what he was looking for.

“It sounds vaguely familiar, but no.”

“You know Welsh, Patrick?” said a voice beside us.

I looked over to see Ida looming as much as a woman barely over five feet tall can loom.

“Liv said you know Welsh?” she said.

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“But you don’t know what Cwn Annwn means?” I said.

“I do not.”

I had one hand in my pocket, gripping the boar’s tusk. I’d considered showing it to him, but as I thought that, I could feel the weight of his gaze on me.

Not here. Not here.

He wasn’t communicating a telepathic message or anything so New Agey. It was his body language communicating the message that he wasn’t comfortable talking in front of the old folks.

Sometimes in Cainsville, I felt like the new girl at school, with the popular clique calling dibs on my friendship. That’s great, but I was really more intrigued by the weird guy in the corner. While the weird guy is quite willing to mock the clique, he knows his boundaries, too, and poaching the new girl too openly is beyond those limits. I’d talk to Patrick later.